


Angel of the Subway

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Artist Mickey Milkovich, Fluff, M/M, New York City, One Shot, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:01:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26784082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: In New York, you didn’t even make eye contact at all if you could help it, let alone hold it for more than seven seconds, through multiple blinks.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 13
Kudos: 90





	Angel of the Subway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Terrimac11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrimac11/gifts).



> Ok so on the FB group someone posted this video  
> https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=331889418229398  
> And asked for a Gallavich fic.  
> I didn't 100% stick to the prompt they gave, but I enjoyed this little fluffy story.

When Mickey had moved to New York three years before for art school, he’d been amazed at the sheer commitment to privacy everyone exuded. Crowded in an elevator, every New Yorker just looked right through the people pressed into them. In Penn Station, commuters just took up residence anywhere on the floor they found room while waiting for a delayed train or bus. And on the subway, everyone was in a personal world of airpods, silly cell phone games, books, or newspapers. (There was no cell service underground, so there weren’t even any tedious conversations to ignore.) This dedication to the world of the self gave him a feeling of freedom. Unlike in Chicago where he’d grown up under the wrathful eye of his father at home and his henchmen and known associates always lurking in public, in New York, Mickey could just breathe, just be himself, just be, for the very first time.

No one in the city seemed intimidated by him, by his knuckle tats, by his surname, by his scowls. They were all just par for the course for New Yorkers, it seemed.

It had been a miracle he’d gotten here at all, really. There’d been a complicated series of maneuvers, hiding his art portfolio at school with the art teacher, pretending to be on runs with his brothers when he was really holed up at a friend’s house drawing, painting, constantly creating. Luckily, he’d been 18 already so when it came time for college applications, Terry hadn’t needed to sign anything. At the encouragement of the aforementioned art teacher, Mickey had even sent in one application to his dream school, The Pratt Institute. They were a test-blind school, which was perfect because Mickey's standardized test scores only looked good if you were blind. All Pratt really cared about was the quality of your artistic portfolio, and apparently Mickey’s had been good enough for a full ride, housing included.

Or at least, his portfolio had been good enough for an _applicant_. Once he was admitted and started classes, it felt like every single professor and artist in residence he had class with was on a personal mission to tear down any confidence he had in his work.

“Mickey, have you even seen a human face before? These proportions aren’t even close!”

“Mickey, do you have any sense of color? This isn’t even deliberate chaos, it’s painful to look at!”

“Mr. Milkovich, when did the Baroque period end and who were its major artists?”

He’d restrained himself from cursing back at them, but the questions never seemed to end, all designed to tear him down, so that, in theory, he would be built back up as a better artist. At present he was working on the first of his professor’s current complaints, his life drawings. He was halfway through his morning ride on the subway to school from his housing and thanks to New Yorkers' personal bubbles, he had an unlimited number of people to sketch and practice on. He’d settled on a young Asian man sitting across from him, a full paper bag of groceries tight between his feet.

But it wasn’t working. All he could see was the flaws in the piece, the limbs too long, the angles that were wrong, and the proportions that didn’t work. He couldn’t bring this to class, and it didn’t deserve a place in his portfolio, it was just practice. 

Frustrated, he ripped the page out of his sketchbook and held it in his hand, frowning. Just as he was poised to rip the paper up, a small hand came to rest on his forearm, startling him out of his self-criticism. 

“Don’t do that.”

“Huh?” Mickey looked to see who the hand belonged to; he’d been so immersed in his creation that he’d failed to notice the people who sat beside him. One was a typical commuter businessman in a suit, eyes closed and clutching a briefcase. But the small, wrinkled hand on his arm belonged to the woman on his other side, a tiny elderly woman in a floral housecoat.

“Don’t rip that up, it’s precious,” she explained softly.

Mickey scoffed, raising an eyebrow. “Fuck, it really ain’t.”

“Not to you, perhaps,” she rejoined. “But if I had one picture of my Harvey, one sketch, or snapshot...” she paused, sighing deeply. “I would treasure it. Who knows what will happen, if you give it to him?”

“Give it to him?” Mickey echoed, confused. It had never occurred to him to give it away, or show it to the man. “But it’s shitty.”

“It’s free.” The woman shrugged. “Maybe he throws it out at the next stop, maybe not. But at least your work is shared. Isn’t that the point of art, the sharing?”

It was, he knew. Sometimes in the classroom and academia he felt utterly divorced from what he’d fallen in love with about art at the very beginning, about the way it let you see inside someone else’s mind, for just a moment. 

He stared at the sketch on the paper in his hand. Should he…? He looked to the woman for support, and she gave him a little nod and smile, eyes crinkling and wrinkles forming all over her face. He wished he’d picked her to draw, with her interesting and unique face.

She elbowed him. “Stop’s coming up. Better do it now.”

Mickey stood and grabbed the pole in the middle of the aisle for support. He took a deep breath and then presented the drawing to the oblivious man, who was deeply immersed in his phone. At first, the man waved his hand in negation, thinking maybe Mickey was offering him the usual trash leaflet. But Mickey shook it once, for emphasis, and it seemed to draw the man’s eyes down. It took a moment, but then he looked back up at Mickey in shock.

“You drew this?” 

Mickey nodded.

“But it’s me.”

“Yeah, man, I drew it just now. It’s for you.” It wasn’t, not at first, but now it was.

“I- I can’t pay you for this.”

His brows drawn down in consternation, Mickey took a step back, leaving the loose paper in the man’s grip. “Didn’t do it for fuckin cash, man. Just keep it, ok?”

The man looked down at the drawing again, and back up at Mickey. His warm brown eyes seemed filled with some deep emotion Mickey couldn’t identify.

“Can you at least sign it?”

Surprised, Mickey pulled out a pen and took back the sheet. He flipped it over, scrawling his signature and the date, before wordlessly handing it back.

The doors were opening, and he took the opportunity to duck out, even though it wasn’t his stop. He could walk the extra blocks, and think. As the subway departed, he happened to glance back and saw the old woman giving him a tiny, happy wave.

  
  


That was how it had started, just trying to practice, and getting roped into giving away his scratch work. But soon, Mickey was hooked. The way people were startled out of their bubbles, the moment when they realized they were in the picture. He learned how to deflect their offers of money, to sign his name in advance, how to time the handoff so he could make a quick getaway, all without having to say a word. 

He didn’t draw strangers on every subway ride. Sometimes he just wanted to veg out and listen to a podcast, or eat a gyro, or take a nap. But more often than not, he spent his commute sketching. He didn’t give away the best drawings, keeping them to bring to class. His instructors noticed, complimenting on the improvements in his technique and the new range of his subjects. 

It had been nearly three months since he’d started his subway sketch series when he found himself on a midday subway ride. Normally he wouldn’t be on the train at this time of day, but his afternoon classes had been cancelled due to the heavy snow, and they’d been sent home. The weather had most people tucked in at home it seemed, because the subway car was nearly empty, just Mickey, a woman with a small child in a stroller, and another man whose long legs stretched halfway across the car as he appeared to sleep, swaying with every rattle of the rails.

Normally, taking up that much room on public transportation would be frowned on, and make Mickey personally pissed off, unwilling to draw the person. But no one was around to take up the room and also… the man had a unique face that Mickey’s fingers were itching to capture. He hoped the guy would sleep for a while, maybe Mickey’s entire ride, so he could really capture the details. 

First, he spent a minute just looking at the man. He wore a woolen beanie, and there were small locks of bright orange hair peeking out. There was a grey scarf wound around his neck and the bottom of his face, but the skin above was speckled with freckles. The long lashes that rested on his cheeks were the same shade of red as the hair. It was a lovely face, like a Botticelli angel. The body was less angelic, more tempting. Those long legs were matched by a long torso, but the guy wasn’t weedy, he looked like there were muscles under the navy peacoat and above the black boots he wore. His thigh in the tight jeans were strong looking, and when Mickey looked carefully, he could tell the guy was packing.

Mickey glanced away, embarrassed. He’d worked with plenty of nude models by this point in his education, male anatomy shouldn’t bother him (or turn him on) but there was something about this man, about his face in repose, about the innocence of his face and the earthiness of his body. Quickly and quietly, not wanting to possibly wake him, Mickey pulled his sketchbook and pencils out, settling the pad on his knee and beginning to work.

He lost himself in the process, in the rough shapes that gave way to vague details, the erasing of the framework, and the adding of particular elements. Soon, too soon, he heard before he even saw, the man begin to wake and stir. He took one last glance, trying to memorize the guy, top to bottom, and ended up at his crotch again, embarrassingly. When he looked up to see the guy’s face, he realized he’d been caught, blood rushing to his cheeks. 

(The most incredible green. No, seaweed, maybe moss?) 

The eyes of the Botticelli man met Mickey’s in acknowledgement of some shared moment. It lasted far too long; Mickey knew that much. In New York, you didn’t even make eye contact at all if you could help it, let alone hold it for more than seven seconds, through multiple blinks. The overheard announcement came on, breaking the spell. 

The angel put his hands on his knees, beginning to stand, and Mickey knew he had to say something. He just couldn’t let the guy leave without- without what?

What did he want?

Did he want to draw the man again? _(Yes, please.)_

Did he want to paint the guy? _(Preferably nude.)_

Did he kind of also want to see if the shadow of the thick cock he’d seen was as big as it looked through the denim? _(Shit, yeah, he wanted to explore it with his lips, memorize the texture, lick the slit and…)_

He’d gotten lost in the daydream, and the doors of the subway car were about to open. Quickly, he scratched his cell phone number on the back of the drawing, and leaped to his feet, poised to follow the angel.

At the doors, he caught him, and without making eye contact, he handed him the drawing just as the doors closed. The angel looked down, forehead wrinkling in confusion, then up, meeting Mickey’s eyes as the subway car pulled away, sweeping Mickey away towards home.

Mickey sat back down, resting his cheek on the cold glass, heedless of how recently it had or had not been cleaned.

Soon enough, he’d convinced himself that the guy wasn’t even that hot, that their shared gaze was meaningless, and that the picture hadn’t even been good, so it was fine that he gave it away, instead of being able to stare and obsess over it for days or weeks to come.

Finally, the train came to his stop, and he trudged up the slushy steps to the street. The sky was a dull gray, a low ceiling of snow clouds tossing down sweet, chubby snowflakes that were quickly piling up all around him. As Mickey began the short walk to his apartment, he heard the beep of his phone, the text message alert. 

**_Unknown number (12:34 pm)_** hey is this train guy?

Mickey goggled at his phone, then looked around to make sure no one was watching him. He had the distinct sensation of being seen, or observed, even though the street was utterly devoid of people or vehicles. 

The question of what he should do was taken out of his hands when the text alert beep went off again.

**_Unknown number (12:35 pm)_ ** ur seriously talented. Wanna get a drink?

**_Mickey (12:36 PM)_** everything’s closed because of the snow, dumbass

As soon as he sent it, he regretted the insult. It made him sound like a dick, but hopefully the angel would understand he was really saying _Yes_.

**_Unknown number (12:38 pm)_** so give me ur address and I’ll bring it to you ;)

A wink. Asking him out for a drink and then a winky face. That was definitely flirting. 

**_Mickey (12:40 PM)_ **Yeah, ok. 173 Steuben St, Brooklyn Apt. 4F.

**_Unknown number (12:40 pm)_** c u in 20

Mickey walked through the snow, knowing the panic and anxiety of what he’d done would set in soon, but enjoying the moment nonetheless. 

He was having drinks. 

At his apartment. 

With an angel.

Ok, yeah. The thought warmed him, and he hurried to do a quick cleanup of his place, maybe he had time to put clean sheets on the bed. 

Just in case.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Someone else can write part 2 where Ian turns the tables and worships Mickey's body.


End file.
